


The Season of Grace Coming Out of the Void

by calenlily



Series: Amended AU [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e10 Amends, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calenlily/pseuds/calenlily
Summary: In the aftermath ofAmends, the search for insight into how and why Angel was brought back from Hell turns up some unexpected answers.(Or, what if the Powers That Be actually fixed their mistakes and didn’t screw over their champions for once?)
Relationships: Angel/Buffy Summers
Series: Amended AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909063
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	1. It’s the season of grace coming out of the void

**Author's Note:**

> The work title and all chapter titles are taken from _The Atheist Christmas Carol_ by Vienna Teng.
> 
> This fic is a rewrite of the first few chapters of one of my first BtVS longfics, _Mistakes Made, Mistakes Fixed_. It follows that storyline closely, but some scenes are only lightly edited from the original, others are almost completely rewritten, some entirely new scenes added, and others cut.
> 
> This installment covers the events of _Amends_ and immediate aftermath. Over the next few months I hope to cover the rest of the season 3 storyline in further short fics and one-shots. It’s a series rather than a single fic this time for two reasons: partly because it bugs me that _Mistakes_ never really hung together as a coherent narrative arc, and partly because it gives me more room to bounce around as my list of episodes/scenes that I’m interested to explore alternate versions of in this AU grows.
> 
> _Season is Grace_ is completely drafted and I plan to post a chapter a day. (Chapter One might even be up sooner than that, since I know this prologue is awfully short.)

_Prologue: October, 1998_

In a place outside of space and time (though most easily accessible from beneath the LA Post Office), two higher beings are arguing.

“He is a Champion, one of the greatest warriors in service to our cause,” the female says. “He is no good to anyone wasting away in a Hell dimension, and it is senseless to leave him there when we have a ready conduit to bring him back.” As she speaks, a silver ring flashes into her hand.

“It is not our place to interfere,” the male Oracle insists. “This is a matter of lower beings, and will sort itself out.”

“It will sort itself out?” his sister repeats, disbelieving. “That dimension is sealed. If we do not act, you know we’re losing the Warrior. And the other as well, for the Chosen One is slowly destroying herself without her other half. It is terribly wasteful to squander the potential of two Champions solely from your aversion to intervening when necessary.”

“Very well,” the male replies. “Bring the Warrior back, but you are _not_ to tamper with his soul. You meddle entirely too much in the natural order of the world, sister.”

“I intervene only when it is critical. You would have us stand and watch as everything falls apart. Our duty is to ensure the Powers’ plan runs smoothly, to avert disaster when affairs left alone would result in catastrophe. To leave the Warrior’s soul poorly moored as it is invites a repeat of the recent debacle,” she argues.

“The Warrior is not unintelligent. He would not allow such a thing to happen again,” he counters.

“Perhaps,” the female Oracle concedes. “But the Champions would still be separated as surely as if we took no action.”

“What of it? That is a matter of the heart, and no concern of ours,” her brother says dismissively.

“You underestimate such affairs, brother,” she chides. “But leave that aside. This is no mere matter of the heart; it is a matter of souls. The Warrior and the Chosen One are true soulmates: the whole far exceeds the sum of its parts. Together they are strong, alone they are weak – if not dead. Only look what Chosen One has been doing to herself. See the condition the Warrior was in before he met her. These are two of our strongest Champions we speak of; we need them, and we need them _together_. Overly volatile as that Hellmouth has become, their combined strength is necessary to prevent cataclysm.”

“As you will. Do as you deem necessary.” The male concedes defeat with a heavy sigh. Somehow, his sister always seems to win these sorts of things.

The female smiles, and holds up the ring in her golden hand. A bright flash lights their chamber as her power is channeled through it, and moments later a tormented ensouled vampire appears before the Oracles.


	2. It’s the season of possible miracle cures

_Chapter One: Christmas Day, 1998_

Slayer and vampire walk the streets hand in hand in the dim light of the clouded morning, marveling at the softly falling snow and the blanket of peaceful quiet it’s laid over the sleeping town. Neither speak a word, as if fearful that disturbing the silence might break the spell.

A TV is on in the window of the Sun Cinema, and as they pass, a weathercaster appears on the screen, her voice resonating in the still air. “And while most of Southern California is enjoying a balmy Christmas, an extreme cold front has sprung up out of nowhere around Sunnydale, where they are reporting heavy snowfall for the first time in, well, ever. Sunnydale residents shouldn't expect to see the sun at all today. That cold front isn't going anywhere….” Even this storm cannot negate the peril of daylight, but it dims the sun’s early rays enough to buy them time: half an hour, maybe, more than long enough to reach shelter without need of haste.

By the time they reach Crawford Street, a thin white layer carpets the ground. Buffy kneels down and scoops up a handful of the wet powder, letting it slip through her fingers. “A miracle,” she murmurs. “ _Our_ miracle....” She trails off, then adds as an afterthought, “Y’know, I’ve never seen snow in real life before.”

She brushes her hands off, and shivers.

“Are you okay?” Angel asks.

“Just a bit chilly.” She shrugs off his concern with a wry smile. “I was dressed for actual _California_ weather, not ... this.”

He motions her into the mansion before him. She curls up on one side of the couch and watches as he kneels down in front of the hearth to build up a fire. “That should help you feel better,” he says as he sits down across from her.

“Thanks.” She flashes a grateful smile.

They fall silent, unsure what to say, and eye one another awkwardly. The moment of grace seems to have passed. Where do they even begin unpacking the night’s tumultuous events?

“So...,” she begins lamely.

“So,” he parrots.

Buffy takes a deep breath to gather her courage, and steps valiantly onto what is likely to be a verbal minefield. “Are we giving the whole ‘us’ thing another go? ‘Cause I mean, we already tried the avoidance method, and, all things considered, I think we can write that one off as a failure.”

He laughs ruefully. “That’s one way of putting it. Maybe I’m selfish to agree, but God, Buffy, I don’t know what to do without you with me. We can try to make a relationship work, but we’ll have to be careful.”

“Careful. Right,” she echoes softly, sadly.

Buffy crawls across the couch to nestle against his side with a small sigh of contentment: one part enjoying the comfort of touch, one part needing to reassure herself of his solidity, his reality. The conversation lapses, but more comfortably.

This time it is Angel who eventually breaks the silence. “You know, I think you might have been right.”

“Aren’t I always?” she teases. “...Seriously, though, what about?”

“Maybe it wasn’t the First who brought me back,” he says slowly, his brow creased in thought. “I think ... I think I just remembered something.”

“Remembered something?” she asks.

He nods. “When ... I was in Hell....”

Buffy winces at the mention, and turns her gaze to her lap to avoid his eyes.

“Buffy.” He turns her face towards him. “Buffy, don’t beat yourself up over it. You only did what you had to, and you were right to do it.”

“I can’t help it,” she says. “The cruelest thing I’ve ever done, and I did it to you. I caused you so much pain. And when you came back, you were so....”

“Shhh,” he cuts her off, cupping her cheek. “I did come back, that’s the important part. What’s done is done. I don’t blame you for it, and you shouldn’t either.”

“I’ll try.” She gives him a shaky smile. “Sorry, what were you starting to say before?”

“Oh, uh,” he shakes his head, trying to recall. “Never mind. It was nothing.”

Unconvinced, her eyes narrow, and she shoots him a dangerous look. “Angel.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” he claims, but his manner reads much more as ‘lost his nerve’ than ‘forgot’.

“Nice try. What aren’t you telling me?” She isn’t letting him off the hook that easy. Especially not when she’s certain it must be important for him to actually speak of his time in Hell.

She looks at him expectantly until he sighs, concluding it’s most prudent just to tell her.

“It’s hard to remember quite what happened ... I wasn’t exactly in my right mind,” he begins haltingly.

“Yes?” She prompts. “Come on, story time!”

She looks up at him with her best puppy dog eyes, and is pleased to see his demeanor lighten. He seems to be fighting laughter at her exaggeratedly eager expression, and leans in to kiss her briefly before continuing with his recollections.

“I was in Hell – and then, suddenly, I wasn’t. Everything was black, and I was falling, and the next thing that’s clear was landing here. But – now that I think about it – I think there was something in between, someplace else I’d forgotten before. Another dimension, most likely. It was this chamber, a great hall, that seemed to stretch on forever, and all light. No apparent source, the whole place was just permeated with light. There were two ... beings. They told me they were sending me back, that I had a duty to fulfill. ...They called me _Champion_. ...I think – I think they said my soul was bound.”

“But that’s, that’s...,” Buffy stammers, incredulous. It takes a moment for the notion to properly sink in. “Angel, if that’s true, it’s wonderful! Who were these guys?”

He struggles to recall details from a time that is vague and muddled in his memory. “I’m not sure. They were like nothing I’ve ever seen. There was a male and a female, both with an aura of immense power. Human in form, and dressed in Classical Grecian style, but their skin was blue, with gold veins ... or was it gold with blue veins?”

“We have to look these guys up!” she urges.

He nods, though without the same excitement. No doubt he’s going to caution her not to get her hopes up too soon. And she _knows_ that, but if this is legit it could be huge, and she refuses to let her enthusiasm for the lead be dampened.

“If they’re trustworthy – I have to go to the library –” She cuts herself off. Research will be of the good, but.... “No,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Not now. Not yet.”

“What?” Angel inquires, his concern at her sudden about-face evident.

“Nothing,” she replies. “It’s just, I don’t want to leave yet. I don’t want to leave you this morning.”

“Oh.” His expression softens and he draws her closer against him.

She starts to relax in his arms, but before she can get too comfortable, a sudden realization makes her sit bolt upright. She curses under her breath. “Damnit, I can’t do either! I can’t believe I forgot!”

“What?” he asks again.

“I left Mom and Faith at home in the middle of the night – in a hurry and promising explanations later. They’re still waiting for me,” she explains frustratedly.

“Go,” Angel says. “Do what you need to do, love. I’ll be alright.”

“I know,” she whines. “But I don’t _want_ to leave.” Despite her complaints, she gets to her feet without delay, pausing only for a quick kiss goodbye. “I’ll be back tonight,” she says as she turns to go. “Merry Christmas, Angel.”

“Merry Christmas.”

***

The day after Christmas finds Buffy right back in the Sunnydale High library. “Okay, here’s the sitch,” she announces as she strides through the doors. “Gold people – well, people-like thingies – with blue veins and toga party dress. Maybe from a different dimension. Who are they, and can they be trusted?”

“My, Buffy, you’ve certainly become invested in research lately,” Giles comments.

She gives him an impatient look, and her Watcher continues, “Uh, yes, that description does sound vaguely familiar. I’ll see what I can find.” He turns to the stacks, running a hand over the spines as he searches for some title. “May I ask what prompted this sudden interest?”

The Slayer instantly turns uncomfortable, not fooled by his casual tone. “You know me, I’m a regular research girl,” she says brightly, hoping that will pass for an answer.

Giles turns back towards her. “ _Buffy_.”

“Well, uh ... see,” she stammers, then takes a deep breath and says very fast, “Angel thinks they might actually be the ones who brought him back from Hell, that it wasn’t the First after all. Because we were walking back after it started snowing yesterday, and then he thought he remembered something from when it happened. He was in this place with those funky gold guys, and then they sent him back here. And we think they said his soul was bound – like it couldn’t be lost again. And that’s good, isn’t it, ‘cause that would mean less danger. But we need to know for sure, because what if they were lying, and that would be bad....”

If Buffy hadn’t been so anxious, she might be amused by the way Giles started cleaning his glasses in nervous reflex the moment she mentioned Angel’s name. He listens carefully to her story, looking like he isn’t sure whether to be completely shocked or expecting something of this nature.

When he responds, his voice is uncharacteristically curt. “Buffy, he does not seem to be in any present danger. You know my feelings about Angel. Don’t you think you’re being a bit –?”

“I’m being a bit? I’m being a _lot_. I know I am. I get irrational when he’s involved, okay? I can’t help it.” She falters for a minute, then goes on in a small voice, “He tried to kill himself yesterday. I’ve lost him so many times already, I don’t think I can bear to lose him again. And he never deserved any of this, either. Please, can I have just a little bit of help here?”

Looking at the young woman who has become like a daughter to him, Giles finds himself unable to refuse. “Very well then, I’ll see what I can find.”

Buffy offers him a faint smile. “Thank you.”


	3. It’s the season of scars and of wounds in the heart

_Chapter Two: Late December, 1998_

Giles comes through with the knowledge, as always. By the next time Buffy comes into the library, he has an entry marked for her in one of his tomes, complete with a sketch.

_Oracles, The:  
Auxiliaries of the Powers That Be. Known to speak for the Powers, and to put in a hand in shaping Fate. Their dimension is accessible only to true Champions. Occasionally grant audience in exchange for an offering to those who perform the proper rituals._

“Wow,” Buffy comments. “Surprisingly straightforward and non-posture-y. ...Maybe because it’s not something I have to fight. Why is it that whenever something apocalyptic and action-requiring is around, there’s only ever the same two or three unhelpful statements in every book?”

Giles is scowling at her – whether for the rambling or because she’s maligned his precious books, she isn’t sure. She flashes her brightest smile. “I know, I know, I’m being tiresome. You don’t know why you put up with me. That about it?”

She’s right on in her assessment, she knows she is, he’s just being too British to admit it.

“I take it this is what you were looking for?” the Watcher asks stiffly.

“Seems to fit the profile,” she agrees. “I’ll double-check with Angel, of course.”

Giles attempts to stifle his disapproving look, she’ll give him credit for that. Buffy notices all the same, and she’s losing patience with his squeamishness.

“What?” she asks defensively.

“You assured me just this week that you weren’t seeing Angel anymore,” he rebukes her.

“Things change,” Buffy replies. “So yes, we’re back together, if that’s what you’re wondering. I know you’re not happy about it, and I’m sorry for that, but it’s my decision to make. And I’m not getting into my reasons right now.”

She knows she’s only delaying an inevitable confrontation, but she really doesn’t want to have that conversation today. For once she has _good_ news, and she isn’t about to let Giles spoil her mood.

Buffy breezes out of the library, calling over her shoulder, “Thanks for the research.”

***

She all but skips into the mansion.

“Buffy.” Angel looks up from his reading at her none-too-quiet approach.

“Hey there,” she greets, settling herself in his lap. “Looks like your blue guys are the real deal.”

If this news does not cheer him as much as she might have hoped, at least his curiosity is piqued. “Oh?”

“Yep,” she chirps. “The Oracles. They’re, like, overseers for the higher powers or something. So sayeth the all-knowing library of the Giles.” After a moment’s consideration, she offers, “I can show you the bio if you want. The book’s even got a mugshot.”

“Sounds good,” he agrees absently. He probably will check, she expects. Not that he doesn’t trust her to know what she’s talking about; he’s just the type who likes to verify things for himself.

“This is all working out so perfectly,” she bubbles. “I never thought we’d get to go back to the way things were _before_. It’s like the Powers decided we deserve a break for once.”

She waits for his assent, but it doesn’t come. She frowns. She hates when Angel goes all distant on her.

Well, one way to fix that. She twists around to straddle his lap, drapes her arms over his shoulders and kisses him hungrily.

It’s been so long and he feels so good and she revels in the freedom to do this with no more need for fear or limitations. How did she ever think she could live without this, she wonders as she rubs herself against him.

It takes her a moment to recognize that he’s not reciprocating. His hands come up to grasp her shoulders, gently pushing her back, and the strained tone in his voice effectively stops her cold. “Buffy.”

“What’s wrong?” Her feeling of hurt at the unexpected rebuff is overshadowed only by her confusion, and she can’t help the words from coming out as a whine. She doesn’t understand the sudden step back. It’s not as if he wasn’t enjoying it; their positions make that much blatantly obvious.

“I’m sorry,” Angel says. “I just don’t think it’s wise to rush into anything.”

Buffy can’t believe she’s hearing this. “Rush into anything? It’s been almost a year since we could be together, how much more waiting are we expected to do? Whatever happened to ‘I want you so badly that part of me doesn’t care what it costs’? Or did that only matter when you thought it was impossible?”

“That’s not what I meant! I’m not saying I don’t want you, Buffy, don’t ever think that. But there are issues we still need to deal with. What we’ve found out is good news, and I truly am glad of it. But it doesn’t erase the past year, and I love you too much to risk getting you hurt again. I’m not saying no, just – let’s take things slow for now?”

She pouts, resenting the knowledge that he’s absolutely right. The two of them are experts at growing issues. As miraculous as it is that they are being afforded a second chance, there is no reclaiming their lost innocence. Things will never truly be the same as they were before her birthday and they still have a year’s worth of heartache to work through and broken fences to mend. But being able to see the wisdom in his suggestion doesn’t mean she has to like it. Buffy and frustrated have become far too close of friends.

“Fine,” she grumbles. “I guess I can work with slow. But I’ll be lodging a formal complaint with the office of ‘it’s not fair’. I mean, you’re like the new, improved, Angel 2.0, now with 100% less soul-lossage. We ought to be able to enjoy.”

Her last quip is as much an attempt to lighten the mood as it is a serious complaint, and she succeeds in provoking a laugh from him. Better yet, he indulges her (or maybe ‘indulges’ isn’t quite an accurate representation) with a kiss. A _good_ kiss, not a guarded or guiltily stolen one like they’ve had to subsist on for months.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

***

It’s so bad after all.

She walks into the library on the third day after Christmas flanked by her friends. Willow is regaling them with the tale of her botched attempt at Oz-seduction. She makes much of the embarrassment factor in her retelling, but the petite redhead is glowing to such an extent that it’s obvious she’s only playing it up for dramatic effect, too happy about having her boyfriend back to be truly bothered. The three friends share a good laugh over it (and if Xander is poorly hiding a measure of jealousy, well, that’s typical Xander, and at least he’s trying to be gracious). Buffy only wishes her own relationship news might be taken half so well, though she fears it’s a futile hope.

The timing of that thought is, Buffy is convinced, proof that the Powers That Be have a twisted sense of humor. For a bare moment later, as they walk through the double doors, Xander asks, “Hey, what’s Deadboy doing here?”

She looks up and, sure enough, Angel is sitting at one of the library tables, closing the same book Giles had shown her yesterday.

She breaks away from her companions and walks over to him as he returns the book to its shelf.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Confirming the diagnosis?” she asks.

He nods. “Yeah. I was just on my way out.”

“Probably wise,” she comments. “I have a feeling I’m about to face the Scooby Inquisition on your behalf.”

“Want me to stick around?” he asks, concerned.

“Thanks for the heroic offer, but nah. I can deal,” she replies. “I’ll drop by your place before patrol?”

“Sounds good,” he agrees.

As he turns to go, she catches his arm and tilts her head up towards him. “Kiss for luck?”

He grants the requested kiss readily.

She drifts back to her friends as Angel leaves the library. Their expressions confirm her fear that this is going to be “intervention”, mark two.

“And I repeat, what’s Deadboy doing here?” Xanders turns to Buffy accusingly. “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Willow at least makes an effort to be polite. “Look, we’re all happy he’s not dead and all. But, I’m sorry, Buffy, do you really think you should be...?” She trails off apologetically.

Xander bluntly picks up where she left off. “We don’t want you getting all snugly with your demon lover ‘cause we don’t wanna be on the menu when he goes psycho killer again.”

It’s one insult too many. Buffy has been swallowing their blind, prejudiced comments for nearly a year – and longer in Xander’s case – and her tolerance for snide remarks has reached its end. Now she’s determined to do things her way, which means Angel is going to be around and everyone else is gonna have to deal. Bolstered by the knowledge that she has ample justification this time, she lets her temper have free rein.

“Don’t you guys even try to understand?” she shouts. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Giles emerge from his office in response to her raised voice. _Good_ , she thinks, _he needs to hear this too_. “We’re not helpless slaves to passion. I would – _neither_ of us would ever knowingly endanger you guys. No one could have known what would happen last year. Do you really think so little of us that we’d be careless about it now? Consider this. It was because of me that Angel turned. It was my fault that I wasn’t able to stop him before I did. For everything he did, the blood is on my hands too, so don’t you dare suggest I take the idea of him losing his soul again anything less than completely seriously.” She looks around the room bitterly, daring them to contradict her. Her fierce mood recalls the time when she dropped a church on Spike and Drusilla for daring to mess with her boyfriend, and her friends are reminded of exactly how dangerous this girl is when roused.

No one speaks, and she continues her tirade, eyes flashing. “But, you know, I don’t even think that’s your real problem. I think it’s more that you don’t understand one simple fact: _Angel is not his demon._ Get that into your heads! I’d understand if you had some trouble getting used to the difference, but you haven’t even tried. Soulless Angel was a sadistic bastard, and I hate him as much as any of you. You got caught in the crossfire, but everything he did was designed to hurt _me_ , and it did. He hurt me worse than anyone else – except maybe Giles.” For a moment, she turns and speaks directly to her Watcher. “I recognize what you’ve suffered, and I know that must make it harder to see the distinction. I’d be willing to cut you slack for that – only, you’re the one who has all the books and knows all the theory and stuff. You, out of everyone, ought to know this already.”

She turns back to the group at large. “But Angel – the soul – our Angel wasn’t responsible for any of that; he wasn’t there. And he’s the one who’s suffering because of this; he doesn’t need to deal with your small-mindedness on top of everything else. He might not call you on it, but I damn well will. Angel would literally rather die than become a killer again, so stop blaming him for things that aren’t his fault. I’m not putting up with your vilifying him anymore.”

Willow speaks up hesitantly. “I’m not saying I don’t trust you to be careful, but magic can be tricky. Can you really be sure his soul is here to stay?”

“We can, actually. We just finished confirming that. Despite the head trip it pulled on him, it wasn’t the First that brought him back from Hell. The Powers did, and they want him fighting for good. There’s no more happiness clause; his soul is pretty much super-glued.”

That seems to reassure Willow, but Xander only looks more disgruntled. “So, what, you guys are just gonna go make with the happies now?”

“Actually, we’re trying to take things slow. In large part because we knew you guys wouldn’t be comfortable about this,” Buffy snaps back. “But maybe we shouldn’t have bothered.”

Casting a disgusted look at the people who claim to care about her, Buffy stalks out of the library.

She can only hope she’ll still have a friend left tomorrow. But in the heat of the moment, she’s finding it hard to care. And damn had that felt good to get off her chest.


	4. It’s the season of eyes meeting over the noise

_Chapter Three: January, 1999_

Buffy plus Angel plus taking things slow proves a doomed endeavor from day one. They’d had enough difficulty keeping their hands off each other when they thought the fallout could be cataclysmic, and “we really ought to wait” just fails to carry the same import.

In the end, they barely hold out for two weeks before their resolve breaks down. While neither of them would deem it a mistake, that first time they get physical again can only be described as a loss of control.

It’s an otherwise unexceptional night. They’re hanging out at the mansion after patrol: something they’ve been doing a lot recently, in the interest of getting comfortable with each other’s company again. Not that either of them honestly believes “comfortable” is coming, but if there’s one thing Buffy and Angel excel at, it’s denial. (Okay, so there’s that whole demon-killing thing too.) So she’s laying back on one side of the couch, procrastinating reviewing her chem notes by messing with her hair. He’s sitting at the far end, reading something or other assuredly very old in a language that may or may not be English but she won’t understand either way.

Then she looks up at precisely the wrong moment and finds him watching her with a look of such longing, such undiluted lust, that she can’t help but shiver under the scrutiny. His hungry gaze flickers to her lips, and unconsciously the tip of her tongue darts out to wet them.

She wrenches her eyes away, focuses intently on her hands in her lap, and tries to pretend she didn’t see him looking, but it’s already too late. Too late, because the heat of his gaze has set a fire inside her that will not be extinguished. It sears through her and settles in the pit of her stomach. Her thighs clench, and she knows that she is wet.

Still she tries not to let on, not to show any outward sign (vain an effort though that may be when he can undoubtedly smell her arousal and hear her racing heart). She rolls her hips in a fruitless attempt to ease the sudden ache in her core, and tries not to think about what she knows _would_ cure that ache. It would be a dangerous temptation to even contemplate having his thick cock buried inside her, his – fuck, she’s thinking about it.

But she can stay calm. She can stay controlled, can keep her temptation to herself. She can.

She crosses her legs, and in shifting position her foot nudges his thigh.

Angel half-turns toward her, and his hand brushes over her ankle. The seemingly absent caress feels electric. She looks up at him, and all the passion and need she’s feeling are plainly written across her flushed face.

“Buffy...,” he breathes, his voice coming low and husky.

That’s all it takes: a glance, a touch too many, and restraint is a distant memory. Their eyes lock, and she knows it’s a lost cause. Their relationship has a million and one issues still that they ought to work through before taking this step, but she can’t seem to care any longer, can’t find the strength to fight the inevitable.

Buffy isn’t sure whether he reaches for her or she reaches for him – or perhaps they both surge forward at once – but the next thing she knows they are grasping at each other in a frenzy of hands and teeth and tongues. She kisses him so fiercely that her teeth sink into his lip and she tastes blood.

They’re only half upright, so she tugs him the rest of the way down onto her: his knees straddle her hips and his erection grinds against the soft flesh of her stomach and she revels in the feel of his body over hers, the solid weight of him pressing her into the cushions. It’s still not close enough, so she curls her fingers into the hair at the base of his neck while one of his hands finds its way up under her shirt to span the small of her back and the other cups her ass.

Only when her need for air outstrips her need for him does she force herself to tear her mouth away. As she struggles to catch her breath, he takes advantage of the opening to strip her shirt off. Almost in the same motion, clever fingers flick open the clasp of her bra, and his mouth envelops her breast.

She bucks up under him wildly, desperate for more of his touch. She remembers nights, in those last halcyon weeks before she turned seventeen, when they’d spent hours solely in making out and heavy petting like this – but she doesn’t have the patience for it now, and she suspects neither does he.

“Bed. Now,” Buffy gasps out, because if they don’t relocate soon they’re going to end up fucking on the couch and that doesn’t seem like the most comfortable of prospects.

Angel swings her up into his arms without hesitation, and she nuzzles her cheek against his chest as he carries her out of the room. He’s wearing a soft sweater that’s excellent for cuddling with, but at the moment she just wants it gone, so she peels it off of him as soon as he sets her down on the bed.

She runs her hands down his sides, grabs onto his hips and pulls him close, greedy for the return of full-body contact. He clutches at her just as eagerly, but twists so that she ends up straddling him this time. His mouth finds hers once more, sucking and nipping at her lower lip before moving on down her jawline. She turns her head to nip at his cheek in turn.

At the same time, his hands are busy unzipping her jeans. He slips one hand inside the open fly to press into her through her panties, the heel resting against her mound. She rocks into the pressure with a moan and her fingers dig into his back.

She rolls off of him, pulling away to wriggle free of her jeans and panties, and stretches out on her back. When she spreads her legs in wordless invitation, he is out of his pants and poised above her in what feels like the space of a heartbeat.

In the midst of their desperate scramble for sensation and connection, time slows to a crawl for a moment, suspended upon the precipice of no return. There’s a look in his eyes that’s hot and tender all at once: more than lust, more than passion, something akin to awe. The weight of emotion is so intense that she almost thinks her heart is going to burst.

Then he pushes inside her and time abruptly resumes its normal flow. Her breath catches in her throat. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” she gasps.

God, she’d forgotten how big he is; he stretches her so tight she feels like she’ll be split in two. The night Angel took her virginity, he’d been so gentle with her, careful not to move until she had as much time as she needed to adjust. It was what she needed back then, but tonight Buffy doesn’t want careful or gentle. She doesn’t want time to adjust. She wants – she needs – to feel all of him, overwhelming her senses, hard and fast and _now_.

She wraps her legs around his body, determinedly pulling him in deeper, and kisses him hard. “Need you,” she pants when she breaks away, bucking up under him to punctuate that statement. “Just – _take_ me.”

And he does. He thrusts home, pumps into her with deep, powerful strokes until her world narrows to nothing but the feel of him. Their joining is too frantic to be any kind of artful – more akin to raw, animal mating than sweet lovemaking – but there is a purity to the passion of it, and he makes her body sing.

Her breath comes in ragged gasps and she clutches at his shoulders, holding to him fiercely, her only anchor in a sea of building pleasure. “Oh god, oh yes, oh! Ohhhh....” The words spill from her lips in a mindless chant, rapidly losing coherence as her crest nears, and then it crashes over her and she loses the capacity for words entirely.

He makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a moan as her body convulses around him, and drives into her harder and faster than ever. His motions are growing less coordinated. She realizes he is fighting to retain the last scraps of his control, and suddenly she wants nothing more than to make him lose it, to push him over the peak of ecstasy just as he has her. She finds renewed energy to meet him thrust for thrust, keeping up the frenetic rhythm, while her mouth settles at the base of his neck. She scrapes her teeth over his skin before bringing her lips together and sucking lightly.

She feels the moment he can hold back no longer. His hips jerk one last time, as if trying to push still deeper inside her. He comes with a wild cry of her name, flooding her core with the cool rush of his seed.

Her lips curve in a satisfied smile as he collapses onto her. When he rolls onto his side to spare her his weight, she keeps her limbs tightly wrapped around him, unwilling to let him slip from her body as yet. She thinks she can still feel his cock pulsing slightly within her. He bends his head to hers, twines his fingers in her hair and kisses her deeply.

“I love you so much,” she murmurs against his lips.

He strokes an affectionate hand over her hair. “And I, you.”

She shivers slightly as the heat of exertion dissipates, but before she can even say anything he pulls the covers up to cover them both. She relaxes against his side with a soft sigh of contentment.

She feels blissed out and boneless, too drowsy and sated to even contemplate getting up. Forget about going home; she’ll apologize to her mom later. “Would it be okay if I just ... never move again?”

“You’ll hear no objections from me.” Angel presses a kiss to her forehead, and she thinks she can feel him smile against her skin.

Buffy shifts just enough to make herself comfortable with her head resting on his chest. His arm draping over her shoulders is the last thing she’s aware of before she lets sleep claim her.

***

She wakes in Angel’s big bed with him holding her: curled around her back, still skin to skin, his body warm from the heat of hers.

Intellectually, she knows he can’t turn again. Intellectually, she knows he wouldn’t still be beside her if he had. Her heart needs reassurance anyway. “Angel?”

“Buffy. You’re awake.” Soft velvet voice, warm and tender as he presses a kiss to her hair. No faking this.

She twists her head and shoulders around so she can kiss him without leaving the comfort of his embrace, soft at first and then more fervently. “I love you,” she murmurs when she breaks away.

“I love you,” he replies without hesitation, one hand lightly cupping her cheek. “Not that I’m complaining, but ... what brought that on?”

She shrugs minutely. “Just ... being here. Being you.”

Angel holds her tighter, and she knows he understands exactly what has been worrying her. “I’m not going anywhere,” he soothes. “Not ever.”

She blinks rapidly as her eyes water; she feels silly and clingy and irrational, but she can’t stop. “I _know_ that,” she chokes out. “I just don’t know how to trust to it. I’ve spent so long being scared, I don’t know how to convince myself it can be all right now.”

He doesn’t have an answer to that, just keeps holding her close and strokes her hair so gently and looks at her with infinite sorrow in his warm dark eyes. There’s a part of her that half-wishes he would lie to her: promise never to hurt her again, find some pretty comforting words to make it all okay. But they both know there are no guarantees in life, and no healer but time for some wounds, and she appreciates the honesty of his silence more than any comforting lie.

As the memory of fear recedes, her body reminds her that she is still very naked, and pressed against an equally naked Angel. The feel of him against her skin is too good for her to dwell on the past for long. She relaxes in his embrace, and turns her head to let her lips ghost over his jaw. A slow heat blossoms in the pit of her stomach as she strokes one foot up and down his calf.

She feels him stir against her back and smiles to herself, writhing against his slowly hardening flesh. His low groan sends a bolt of heat through her, but he grasps her hips in an attempt to still her motions.

“Buffy...,” he says, a hesitation. _Are you sure this is a good idea?_ she hears.

“Just kiss me,” she says. She hears the echo of the past in the words ... and lets it go: lets it fade away as his fingers twine in her hair and his lips descend on hers. “Just love me,” she continues when the kiss breaks.

“Always,” Angel promises, the word a soft caress. His arms wrap around her, hands palming her breasts, while his lips rain light kisses over her back and shoulders, so soft and sensual that it makes her tremble.

She arches her back, pressing herself closer into his hands and against his hips with a hum of pleasure. He massages her breasts for a long minute, his thumbs brushing the hardened peaks of her nipples, before his hands slide down her sides to encircle her waist.

He uses that hold to lift her and tilt her hips just so until she can feel his cock pressing up between her legs, the head nudging at her entrance from behind. He pauses again there, whether hesitating or simply drawing out the moment she’s not sure.

Either way, Buffy doesn’t want to wait any longer. She pushes back against him so he slides into her, filling her slow and smooth and perfect. “Ohhh...” The moan that spills from her lips is echoed by his own.

He pulls back almost all the way and strokes into her once more, just as slow. Repeats the action again and again, burying himself to the hilt with each long, leisurely stroke. She tries to push the pace faster but his hands tighten on her hips, unyielding. His lips trail up her neck and over the side of her face before stopping to nibble at the lobe of her ear, drawing a helpless mewl from her.

It’s enough to make her melt. She surrenders to the tenderness of his touch and stops fighting to take control. Instead she rocks back against him, seating him all the more deeply inside her, and lets herself be lost in a sensual haze.

They give themselves to each other, that morning, as deliberate as the night before was reckless. If that was all about need and passion, this is comfort and rededication.

Afterwards, they curl together in the still of the morning. She feels the quiet rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, his false breaths unconsciously synced with her own. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt so hopeful or so content.

“I love you,” she breathes. She’s probably said it a thousand times in the last few weeks, but she can’t stop. It still feels like a miracle that she’s allowed to say it (even allowed to feel it) again.

“I love you,” he murmurs in response. “Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”

And she knows they will.


End file.
